Spike Stoker's SO17 interview
by Confab
Summary: After an unfortunate incident at school, Spike is summoned to SO-17 HQ for a little chat.


A heavy oak door opened and Spike shuffled cautiously in. A rotund white-bearded man clad in a shop front full of pinstripe beamed at him. 'Ah, Mr Stoker! Glad you could make it. Any trouble finding your way here?' Spike shook his head. 'Not really, Professor van Helsing. Interesting office decor by the way. The shrunken heads are very realistic.' Van Helsing guffawed. 'Realistic? My dear boy, every artifact in this office is the real thing. That's what we do in SO-17. I take it you've read our pamphlet?'

Spike vaguely remembered a glossy sheet of paper extolling the virtues of the outfit. 'Pamphlet? Sure. Something to do with suckers and biters.' The professor nodded. Not a man to mince words, Spike thought. 'In a nutshell. Our work here is somewhat... varied. And dangerous. Many an agent has, through a trifling error of judgment or momentary lapse of attention become, ah, an unexpected member of the Dark Legion.'

Spike raised an eyebrow. 'Dark Legion eh? And what does SO-17 usually do about that?' Van Helsing looked away for a moment. 'Well, after the last rather public impaling incident we decided that it's better to follow the old 'cruel to be kind' philosophy.' Spike nodded. 'In other words, you...' 'Exactly,' the professor said, 'We stake them out. A damned nuisance, but necessary all the same. Coincidentally, your job will be to track down these, er, ex-employees and make sure they stay dead.' Spike frowned. 'So I'll be a glorified gravedigger? Do I get my own JCB and hard hat?'

van Helsing rolled his eyes and made an impatient gesture. 'No, Mr. Stoker. _Undead_. The undead tend to... roam. Have you heard of Marston Heath?' Stoker cast his mind back. He'd heard a few stories, but nothing concrete. 'Vaguely. Wasn't that where a bunch of zombies ransacked the village and ate... oh. Roam. I get you.' van Helsing grunted acknowledgement. 'Good. Now, first question. What attracted you to this job in the first place?' Spike groaned to himself. Interviews never change. 'The money. And the babes.'The professor ticked something off a list in front of him then hesitated. 'Babes? I don't quite understand.' It was Spike's turn to roll his eyes. 'Babes. You know, the Buffy types. Eye-candy slayers.'

van Helsing looked Spike up and down. 'Mr Stoker...'

Stoker waggled his finger. 'Call me Spike.' van Helsing massaged his temples. 'As you wish. Spike, I believe you have some inaccurate ideas about SO-17. You will not be a vampire slayer. Vampires are, frankly, the least of our worries. You won't be casting any spells, there will be no ring of understanding friends and you will not have a wise mentor to save you. Your equipment will consist of a sharpened shovel, a service issue shotgun and a modified Dustbuster.'

Spike recoiled. They hadn't mentioned this in the brochure. 'But what about...' van Helsing smiled grimly. 'Our reputation? Purely a PR invention. But our reputation is the very least of your concerns, Mr. Stoker. Am I correct?' Spike shuddered at the memory. 'Look, I acted on instinct. When your headmaster starts howling about a terrible hunger while growing teeth and fur in the middle of assembly you can't just sit there like an unpaired sock. By the time I got to him, he'd already sunk his teeth into Mr. Roberts.'

van Helsing nodded in recognition. 'Ah yes, the school gym teacher. Not surprising really, considering how much gym teachers are hated.' Spike chuckled nastily. 'Too right. When I saw who it was I was tempted to walk away, but sooner or later someone else was going to be eaten.' van Helsing shrugged. 'Quite. Enlighten me on your thought processes as Mr. Roberts was being... consumed.'

Spike snorted. 'Thought processes? You're joking, right? I just grabbed a hockey stick, broke the head off and rammed the splintered end in the creature's eye. It howled, dropped its lunch and went for my throat.' The professor grimaced. 'Fascinating. But why exactly are you still here if the beast went for your throat? Werewolves are not known for bad aim.' Spike shrugged. 'Sheer luck. When it leapt, I was flat up against the wall with the stick under my armpit like a lance. It skewered itself on the stick when its jaws were about six inches away. Terrible breath it had too. I knew I hadn't killed it, so I got one of the school's rugby trophies and beat the thing to death while I had the chance. The Mr. Roberts had something to say about that too.'

van Helsing stared at Spike for a long time. He was aware of a sonorous ticking that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Suddenly the professor grinned like a lighthouse. 'Now I understand where you got your nickname. The common perception is that silver poisoning is the only solution to a werewolf infestation, but only a few are aware that pure silver is not required. Mr. Stoker, you appear to have an aptitude for the work. One of our more experienced operatives is willing to train you to SO-17 standards, starting on Monday. Is this agreeable to you?'

Spike shrugged again. 'I suppose so. But...' van Helsing held up a hand. 'You suppose so? My dear fellow, SO-17 requires more commitment then that. When I was an operative I rarely worked less then seventy hours a week, and at least thirty of those hours were spent in graveyards, churches and other infestation sites.' Spike sighed. 'And the other forty hours?'

The professor rose to his feet abruptly. 'Paperwork. SpecOps thrives on reports. Not that anyone outside SO-17 can read them without a handful of Valium and a bottle of brandy, but we must adhere to procedures. He handed Spike a bulging envelope. 'Here is your contract, and please make sure you fill in the 'next of kin' section. The last person to forget ended up having his life insurance payout diverted to the SO-17 Christmas party fund. Admittedly his widow wasn't too pleased, but we gave him a good send off. What was left of him, anyway. Please make sure that Nurse Klappenmeyer knows your blood type. Monday morning, 5am, try not to be late. Firearms training, don'tcherknow. Oh, and remember to sign the IT disclosure.'

Spike shook the professor's hand and allowed himself to be ushered out of the office. When the door had closed he smiled tightly. 'Firearms training? Yippee kai-yay,' he whispered to himself.


End file.
